Deja Vu
by nonoji
Summary: AU. A woman, a cafe, and a man desperate to protect what is important to him. Not recommended for people who want to retain the images of their canon counterparts.


_**-Déjà vu-**_

It was exactly two thirty, when the woman entered the empty café as she had done so consistently, for the past couple of weeks.

She waited politely at the door before Sanji led her to her seat. He smiled and nodded as she asked for her regular order without glancing at the menu.

The room was silent, save for the sound of her stockinged legs rubbing together as she walked to her corner. She sat down, opened her bag, and pulled out her book.

* * *

The woman who had appeared in his dreams.

He knew her name, had found out her occupation, had even followed her home one night, though none of this made him understand her anymore than she had let him.

As he made the espresso, he casually studied her as she read her book. She was attractive and well mannered, pleasant, but somehow unapproachable and in that sense, she was similar to the motionless café that he ran with no pride.

She reminded him of the porcelain doll that his mother used to treasure, a handcrafted antique that existed with no purpose other than for people to admire its beauty. It was something never to touch, only to look at, as his mother had reprimanded his sister numerous times in his childhood. His feeling towards the woman was equal parts of longing and dread; longing, for she felt achingly familiar, making him nostalgic for the way of life he had given up on, and dread, for he instinctively knew that she could bring it all back if she felt inclined to it, and given the chance.

The coffee made, he laid two rum truffles on the side of the cup before approaching her silently, placing the drink on the table in front of her. She closed her book and thanked him.

He nodded, retreating a few steps back. He wondered if she knew how much power she was capable of holding against him. He paused. Maybe he had been overestimating her. Yes, he was not thinking straight. How can she possibly be that ghostly woman in his dreams? All his uncertainty evaporated however, when he looked up into her eyes and saw the darkness of that night, that same darkness that had swallowed up all his self-belief.

Just for a moment, his vision blurred. He swayed, then slowed his breathing until he was able to regain his composure. He watched her as she stared out of the window, out onto the snowy street, seemingly unaware of what she had just accomplished. The subtle curve of her lips told him otherwise.

She recrossed her legs, and he glimpsed the seam on the back of her thigh. He tried to suppress himself from imagining the sensation of tracing the line with his mouth. How cold her legs must feel in this weather. Up, up, and further he would trace, wetting her stockings with his tongue and burying his face inside her tight skirt.

...

_He ran his hot tongue up the side of her thigh, hands rubbing, making her skirt ride up over her waist. She tried to pull away, but she was not aggressive enough to dissuade him from what he was about to do. He stood and pressed himself against her, causing her lower back to slam against the counter. He realised that if she reached behind her, she could unhook the chef's knife that hanged on the wall. He pushed her sideways, away from that possibility. _

_Pinning her against the door, he slowly licked the side of her neck, stopping just short of her ear. Her whimpering grew louder, and it irritated him; it sounded exactly like the whining of his dead dog. She turned her head to the direction of the window. He jerked her head back to make her meet his gaze. _

_His breath caught. He realised then, that it had all been an act; her eyes were cold and unfazed. _

_She was completely in control. He was only doing this because she had let him._

_..._

She turned her attention back from the window to the staring man. With the same dead eyes as in his nightmares, she invited him to sit beside her. He accepted, taking the seat opposite the woman.

She offered him a truffle before biting into one herself. He took it and pushed it between his lips. He closed his eyes, bittersweet cacao filling his senses, imagining the same taste filling the woman's mouth. He imagined their saliva mixing.

He opened his eyes, and looked down at his hand. The scar on his finger had almost faded.

...

_She smiled. She smiled, even as he had her pinned against the door, even as he tore at her crisp, white chef's uniform. He pressed his fingers against her mouth, not wanting to see her amusement. He felt humiliated, and did not know what he could do to change the situation to his advantage._

_Suddenly, without warning, the woman bit down on his thumb. She drew blood, shocking him into action. He slid his fingers down to her neck as his other hand joined from where it had been holding her._

_He squeezed._

_..._

He could not remember why he had his hands wrapped around the woman's throat. Just a moment ago, he was staring at the scar on his thumb. He still had the taste of chocolate in his mouth.

He had sworn to himself, that he would never again hurt another woman. He had sworn he would use his hands only to create, never to destroy. Like the doll, she was something never to touch, only to look at, yet his grip on her throat grew even tighter. He wanted to let go, wanted to pull away, but it was almost as if her skin was sucking him in. He wondered if he could call out for help, but knew that no one could arrive in time.

...

_Her veins pulsed against his palm, as he watched the fluid that dribbled down her lower lip. Her skin began to lose its colour, fading into the palest of blues._

_She was dying, and yet her expression remained unchanged._

_She whispered to him._

_..._

Tears began to flow down his cheeks, as his hands destroyed the very thing he aspired to protect. The woman stared back at him, still and unresisting, taunting him without a word. His knuckles felt frozen in place.

She looked him in the eye, and whispered as she exhaled her last breath.

"This is who you are."

* * *

He blinked.

He looked up at the clock on the wall.

It was exactly two thirty, when the woman entered the empty café as she had done so consistently, for the past couple of weeks.

She waited politely at the door before Sanji led her to her seat. He smiled and nodded, as she asked for her regular order without glancing at the menu.

The room was silent, save for the sound of her stockinged legs rubbing together as she walked to her corner. She sat down, opened her bag, and pulled out her book.

* * *

_AN: __I'm sorry if this didn't make much sense. Or if it disturbed you. _

_I wanted to blur the lines between dreams and reality, which I'm not sure if I suceeded in doing. Actually, I'm still not sure if this was worth posting, but... I just wanted to know the opinions of others. Please comment, it will motivate and help me improve._

_Oh, and it's pretty obvious, but like most of my writings, this one's unbetaed. Yeah, you've probably noticed the bad grammar._


End file.
